Sanctuary Found (Pelican Bay 2)

I hadn’t known which of my parents had been driving the car when Alex Miller had finally shown up at my house the night Loki had been taken away. But one look at the pictures of the smashed-up vehicle and I’d known.

It’d been my mother.

She’d been considerably shorter than my father and from the position of both the steering wheel and the front seat, I’d known she was the one driving. Not that it had really mattered–if the situation had been reversed and our mother had asked Dallas to protect the memory of our father, he’d have done it.

Because it was like I’d said at the meeting the night before.

Dallas protects those he loves.

While I let them down.

I sighed and scanned my surroundings. I’d been walking for a good three hours and while I wasn’t too far from the sanctuary, I had no plans to go there. I was relieved I’d managed to get my brother his beloved pet back the night before and that the town finally knew the truth about him, but I wasn’t foolish enough to believe that had earned me any kind of pass with Dallas.

I didn’t want one.

Just like in Mosul, I’d made the wrong call and others had paid for it.

There were just some things that no amount of being sorry for could fix.

The reminder had me pulling out my phone. I searched out the number I wanted, but not surprisingly, there was no answer when I dialed it.

Fuck, I knew what that meant.

I waited for the voicemail to pick up and said, “You better call me back, asshole. Because if you don’t, it means I have to get my ass on a bus and come down there to check on you. And you know what kind of mood that’s going to put me in.”

I hung up and waited. Sure enough, not three minutes later, my phone rang. I didn’t look at the caller ID because even if I hadn’t just called him, Jett was the only guy I talked to anymore.

“I’m fine,” Jett snapped before I could even say hello.

I doubted he was fine. It’d been less than three months since the man’s entire life had changed.

Or, as he saw it… ended.

“You going to PT?” I asked.

“You going to the head shrink?” he responded.

I sighed and said, “Just get your ass up here, Jett. I’ll send a fucking private jet for you.”

The old Jett would have laughed and called me a pretty, rich white boy or spewed some crap about how my kind didn’t belong on his kind’s side of the tracks. This Jett didn’t do anything other than whisper, “I’m tired, Maddox. You just caught me going to bed.”

More like I was catching him still in bed.

Despite being his commanding officer and growing up in two very different worlds, Jett was the closest thing I had to a best friend. The product of a black mother and white father, Jett had been fighting battles long before he and I had become roommates at West Point. While I’d been a shoo-in because of my father’s powerful connections, Jett had had to fight tooth and nail for his chance to be accepted into the elite program, specifically the ever-important nomination that was a requirement to even be considered for admission. While I’d practically had my pick of senators to provide the nomination, Jett had had to struggle to even get noticed long enough by his state’s local senator to be considered for a nomination.

But he’d done it.

And once he’d gotten to West Point, he’d made it clear to the world that even though his mixed race may have played some role in being accepted to the diversity-loving academy, he knew he deserved to be there and he’d worked just as hard, if not harder, than the rest of us.

Jett and I’d had big plans for the future, and they’d all come to a screeching halt one hot day a few months earlier when I’d gone with the intelligence I’d been given, rather than my gut.

Ten men had paid for the oversight. Jett and I were the only ones who’d survived the roadside bomb and subsequent ambush that my commanding officer had assured me wouldn’t be there.

“My grandma’s calling me,” Jett added. It wasn’t like I’d actually thought he’d take me up on my offer anyway. God knew I’d made it enough times after we’d been discharged.

“Yeah, okay,” I said. “Call me later.”

We both knew he wouldn’t.

He didn’t even bother to agree or say goodbye. He just hung up. Despite Jett’s repeated reassurances that he didn’t blame me for anything, I knew there had to be a part of him that did. And even if there wasn’t, just looking at me would be enough to remind him of everything he’d lost.

Because while we’d both been diagnosed with PTSD, at least I still had my legs and could literally walk away from the truth.